


The Naked Now

by trill_gutterbug



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Crossdressing, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Feminization, I didn't tag this rape/non-con but I would say there are definitely dub-con/coercive elements, In Which Trill Continues to Name Fics after Star Trek Episodes Because Why the Eff Not, M/M, PWP, Post-Canon, Relatively Mild Daddy Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 13:16:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9236756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/pseuds/trill_gutterbug
Summary: “These are ladies things,” Credence gasps. He wants to look over both shoulders to make sure no one is spying, that no one has seen him touch something so inappropriate and private, but the expression on Graves’ face catches his eye and won’t let go. It’s a narrow, focused look, a hungry calculation that Credence’s body has learned to respond fiercely to.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the great and glorious [kit](http://chalk-baphomet.tumblr.com), who is with me in sickness and in health.
> 
> I have some _thoughts_ on the whole Grindelwald reveal and none of them are very generous, so my personal canon-rewrite is that Graves was never Grindelwald in disguise at all, but a follower of his. That has no particular relevance to this fic, by all means imagine whatever you will in that regard, but let it be noted that that was the dynamic in the back of my head when I wrote this, so there are no references to Grindelwald, or Graves subtly trying to maintain his identity, etc. It's just porn! :D
> 
> Also [this](http://s3.weddbook.com/t4/2/2/4/2248381/m-flapper-1920s-vintage-slip-lingerie-silk-crepe-de-chine-chemise-flapper-bridal-trousseau-peaky-blinders-20s-vintage-great-gatsby-medium.jpg) is essentially the chemise in question.

The box is sitting on the table when Graves calls Credence into the kitchen, the lid askew and a fold of white tissue paper peeking over the edge. Credence stops when he sees it, because it is so obvious against the shabbiness of the tabletop, the delicate gold stripe of its pattern so incongruous compared to the brown walls and the torn curtains over the window. It isn’t big, but it’s bright and elegant in a way that makes it unavoidable. He stops in his tracks and drops his eyes because he can’t be meant to look at it. This is an accident, an intrusion.

Graves is leaning back in the single chair across the room, one elbow braced on the table next to a glass with a half inch of whisky in it. He’s not wearing his coat and his shirtsleeves are rolled neatly up his forearms, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. Credence watches from the corner of his eye, wrong-footed and going cold with awkward embarrassment. Graves blows a curl of smoke from the edge of his mouth and points at the box with his cigarette.

“Open it,” he says.

Credence shifts his weight from one leg to the other. “Pardon?” he whispers, peering from beneath his hair. 

“Open the box,” Graves says again. “It’s for you.”

“No.” It stutters out of him before he can snatch it back; not a refusal or belligerence, never that, but surprise. He is immediately mortified by his thoughtlessness. He makes an amendment. “It is?” 

Graves doesn’t seem upset by his rude behaviour. He smirks in a way that creases his eyes. “It is. Go ahead.”

Credence hesitates. He takes a step forward, steeling himself with a quick breath. The box doesn’t scuttle away from his clumsy hands when he slides the lid off. He doesn’t break it or dirty it but he wants to cringe at the way it feels, soft and rich beneath his fingers. He parts the tissue paper carefully and discovers something even more alarming underneath: lace. Lace and a softer, more sheer material, something he can’t fit a name to. Silk, maybe, or satin. 

He stares for a long moment, trying to parse it, and then lifts his head to Graves. “What is it?”

Graves is staring back at him intently, his cigarette curling smoke from its lengthening cylinder of ash. “Take it out.”

Credence does. His hands shake. His sharp nails catch the flimsy fabric. When he lifts it, it opens in the air, fluttering into a damning shape. He nearly recoils as if from a blow, only manages to keep from dropping it by instead clenching it tight in both nerveless fists. 

“These are ladies things,” he gasps. He wants to look over both shoulders to make sure no one is spying, that no one has seen him touch something so inappropriate and private, but the expression on Graves’ face catches his eye and won’t let go. It’s a narrow, focused look, a hungry calculation that Credence’s body has learned to respond fiercely to. He feels himself flush helplessly all the way through. His stomach clenches and rolls like he’s going to be sick.

“It’s a chemise,” Graves says, in a tone that means he’s agreeing with Credence’s assessment. “Will you wear it?”

Credence is stunned. He opens his mouth once, and then again, but no sound comes out. After a swallow, he manages, “Me? But I-- why?”

“Because it will look beautiful on you.”

Credence looks down at it again, the soft pink of it crushed in his big awkward hands. “No,” he says, still not a refusal, but a denial. “It's not-- it won't. Why would…” He trails off. His mind is racing. How could he look anything less than ridiculous in something like this? A child playing dress-up, a clown in an ill-fitting suit. Laughable and wrong.

Graves leans forward, stubbing out his cigarette in the glass dish on the table, and plants his elbows on his knees. “You don't have to,” he says. “But I would like it very much if you did.”

Credence stares at him. He doesn't know what to do. His skin crawls at the thought of disappointing Graves, either by refusal or by capitulating and not meeting his bewildering expectations of beauty. Credence realises this must at long last be his sin catching up with him; he thought he had miraculously dodged the shameful invert curse that would compel him to adopt feminine traits and debase himself in humiliating ways, the mental illnesses he learned in church afflict homosexuals. He had thought, because Graves appears free of it, or because he is himself a wizard and thus created already outside the laws of nature and God…

Graves meets his eyes steadily, fingers clasped loose before him. Credence is distracted hopelessly by the turn of his thick wrists, the open collar of his shirt, the way his dark hair has loosened from its pomade and fallen over his brow. The shadow of five o’clock stubble at the edge of his jaw. Credence feels weak and overheated, a hundred other conflicting things at once.

“All right,” he whispers.

Graves smiles. He unclasps his hands and crooks a finger at Credence, beckoning. Credence obeys, shuffling around the table, clutching the chemise. Graves reaches out and takes it gently from him, folds it into quarters and sets it aside on the table. Like that, its shape hidden and its purpose deferred, it is nearly innocuous. Credence glances at it but he is distracted by Graves touching his hips on both sides, cradling the sharpness of his pelvis in his palms. 

“Let's take all this off,” Graves says, tugging the bottom of Credence's winter coat. Their rooms are kept warm and Maryland is less frozen than New York at this time of year, but Credence is always cold no matter what. He wants to melt against Graves, sink to his knees and press himself into the space between Graves’ arms. He lifts his hands instead to unbutton his coat. It's new. Graves bought it for him when they arrived in Baltimore, along with new shoes and a scarf and a hat that covers his ears.

“It's my job to take care of you now, my boy,” Graves had said, holding up jacket after jacket against the breadth of Credence's skinny shoulders in the gentleman's store. “You're not a waif any longer.”

Credence hadn't been sure how he felt about that. He hadn't been a waif before, he didn't think. He had been clothed and fed and disciplined as the Bible instructed, housed and given purpose and… _And mistreated_ , whispered a voice that sounded like Graves. _Denied your birthright and your people. Beaten for things you couldn't control. Untaught and unloved._

He shakes his head to clear it. None of that matters any more, Graves had said. This is his life now. A life that involves eating sweets after dinner, and reading books that are not the Bible, and wearing fine new clothes, and-- 

Graves’ hands slide up his belly as Credence finishes unbuttoning his coat. They are so large and warm even through his cotton shirt, thumbs pressing either side of his navel. Credence feels the quiver in his knees that always accompanies the throb in his groin, his cock thickening with a swiftness that makes his head swim. It presses out the front of his pants, a sudden embarrassing monument of desire directly beneath Graves’ nose, unavoidable. 

Credence bites his tongue to keep from stammering an apology. Graves has told him sternly many times that it is nothing to be sorry for, unless he hides it or uses it to be unfaithful to the debt of life and limb he owes Graves. After all, Graves had recognised his true nature there in the wreck of his sister’s old home, had stood unafraid on the street outside the smouldering rubble with an expression of the most joyous wonder on his face and cried, “Come down here, Credence, you amazing creature!” He had helped Credence escape before he could be apprehended by the magical law enforcement that would have destroyed him for his ignorant crimes. He had apologised for his previous harsh words: “I was distracted, my boy, and disappointed. You understand.”

Credence had not understood but he'd nodded anyway and ducked his head beneath Graves' chin, shut his eyes at the gentle squeeze of Graves’ hand on the back of his neck. He owes Graves a great many things. His fealty is the least of them.

He unfastens his shirt and lets it hang open along with the coat. Gooseflesh sprouts immediately down his spine and stomach and shivers along his arms. Graves soothes it with the backs of his knuckles. He dips his fingers beneath the the waist of Credence's pants. 

“These too,” he says, tugging at the belt. 

A spasm of instinctive fear churns through Credence’s gut when Graves undoes the buckle, but he takes a deep breath to quiet it. Graves doesn’t hit him, at least not with the belt. And this is a new one anyway, the leather supple and bright, unmarred by either past association or impact. At first, weeks ago, Credence had had to cinch it to the tightest notch to keep his trousers up, but this morning he had loosened it an entire hole. He’s putting on weight with the rich diet Graves has made available to him, kippers and soft white bread and thick sweet marmalades for breakfast, bloody steaks with buttery potatoes for supper. His stomach growls loud and unexpected at the thought, but Graves only chuckles and undoes Credence's flies. His hands brush the hardness of Credence's cock. It jumps at the touch, bent beneath the elastic of his underpants. 

Without the belt, the trousers slide down easily. They puddle on the floor around Credence's feet, which he lifts one after the other when Graves touches the insides of his knees. Graves pushes the pants away with his shoe so that Credence stands trembling in only his underwear and his coat, swaying and bent like a tree beneath the hurricane of his feelings. His throat is constricted with something that might be tears, or a plea that hasn’t yet grown words. 

“There,” Graves murmurs. “Already lovely.”

Credence's face flames. He knows it's polite to say thank you to compliments but he's sure his voice will crack if he tries. Graves’ thumb strokes once over the head of Credence's cock through his underwear, and the quiver in his knees becomes a knocking. He stumbles, catching himself on Graves’ shoulder. Graves looks up at him with a smirk hidden at the corner of his mouth, his eyes deep and fiery. 

“Eager, aren't you?”

It's a tease, because Credence is always eager, always made senseless and desperate by Graves’ touch, willing every day to be coddled and petted and seen to. He feels starved if he doesn't get it, hollow and unmoored.

“Coat off,” Graves says, dropping his hand. Credence complies quickly, draping it over the table beside the folded chemise, his shirt atop it. In nothing but his underwear, he tries not to wiggle like a poorly trained puppy, fights not to fidget one foot overtop the other or wrap his arms around himself. Graves leans back in his chair, knees wide apart. Credence can see the evidence of arousal in his pants, a thick distension of the fine gray fabric that makes Credence's mouth flush with wetness, his breath catch. Graves’ hands dangle between his spread thighs, casual. He points at Credence with his chin. “Take them off.”

Credence hooks his thumbs beneath the elastic of his shorts and begins to draw them slowly down. Every inch is a torture of mortification and anticipation, his cock rising into the open air, bare as sin. Graves makes a low noise when Credence is naked, just a hum beneath his breath. His hands flex between his thighs. Credence watches, riveted, as one of his thumbs touches the inseam of his trousers, just catching it, and then drops away. 

“You’re so slender,” Graves says softly. 

Credence blinks, unsure, because that's not at all a word he would use to describe himself. Skinny, perhaps, or bony. Slender means something else. Something willowy and well-formed, deliberately thin rather than unfortunately. He looks down at the smooth concavity of his stomach, the hair-dusted legs below. His cock stands out rude and demanding from its tangle of dark curls. 

“Don’t you think you’re beautiful?”

Credence looks up sharply. There is a layer of meaning under Graves’ words, an invitation in a language Credence doesn’t speak. Is it a trick, or something more confusing? Credence gives a jerky shake of his head. He doesn’t know the rules to this game.

“That’s a shame,” Graves says. “Here, I’ll show you.”

He sits forward again and picks up the chemise from the table. It unfurls between them, sheer enough that Credence can see Graves through it. He holds it out. “Put it on,” he says.

Credence hesitates, still half-convinced this must be a joke. But the chemise dangles there, a slip of harmless fabric, and Graves beyond it, waiting. He takes it. 

Figuring out how it’s meant to go on takes a moment of fumbling, finding the holes for neck and arms, but then he ducks his head into it and adjusts his shoulders and it floats down over him like a dream. He doesn’t know exactly how it’s meant to fit, but it doesn’t bunch beneath his armpits or catch at his shoulderblades. The lace scratches him, but not terribly. It’s more comfortable than half the hand-me-downs he’s worn. He stands very still, frozen like a mouse that has smelled a cat, awaiting judgement. 

Graves lets out a very long breath and lifts one hand to rub at his mouth. His eyes run up and down Credence’s body, from his bare knees to the hem across his thighs, over the jut of his cock, along his flat chest where the chemise drapes loose as cobwebs. He seems to be searching for the right words to say. 

“That’s very good,” he murmurs at last.

Credence exhales in relief. He takes a step forward and Graves reaches to meet him, taking hold of his hips again. 

“Do you like it?” Graves asks.

Credence considers. He does like the cool softness of the material, the way it brushes his buttocks and his nipples. He thinks he likes the sweet color of it, the delicacy of the straps on his shoulders. He likes the silky whisper of it over the head of his cock. But most of all, he likes the way Graves is looking at him, like he could devour Credence whole. 

He nods. 

“Good,” Graves says. “Good.” And then he leans forward and kisses Credence’s belly. His lips are just a suggestion through the fabric, but the stroke of his tongue isn’t. Credence twitches at the touch of it, then gasps when Graves lowers his head farther and takes the head of Credence’s cock into his mouth. Even through the chemise, it’s scorching hot. Credence’s hips knock forward of their own volition but Graves is unaffected, squeezing Credence’s thighs to keep him still. He curls down over Graves, moaning, clutching his back. He always spills so fast when Graves sucks him, hardly able to contain the dizzying pleasure. He can feel it starting already-- he’s going to make a mess of this beautiful thing Graves bought him, all over the inside of it--

But Graves takes his mouth away before that can happen, lifting his head so Credence’s hips are hunching at nothing but air, stuttering to a halt. He pushes Credence back with one firm hand, steadying him. “Go get the Vaseline,” he says.

Credence goes. 

It’s in a drawer by the bed, a small jar with an inch already scooped out. He drops it once because the outside of it is slick and his hands are shaking. They’ve only used it three times. Credence still isn’t quite sure what to think of the act itself. It strikes him as egregiously sinful, but considering he practices witchcraft every day under the tutelage of a man who helped him escape punishment for the murder of his mother and the partial destruction of a city, he’s not sure that matters anymore. He knows that it feels good, although sometimes it’s overwhelming, and that Graves particularly likes to do it, which makes it even better. 

On his way out of the bedroom, he is shocked to catch his own reflection in the mirror by the door. He stops and stares. The chemise hides nothing, especially not his erection and the damp spot around it, or the hair on his chest, or the flush down his neck. He looks… soft. Unthreatening. Not at all like a boy with a dark and evil power inside him. He smoothes his free hand down his front, turning slightly to look at himself from the side. It does look good, he realises with surprise. He looks good. 

The thought jolts him with a guilty mixture of shyness and pride, spurs him back into action. He makes haste for the kitchen. When he gets there, the whisky glass on the table is empty and Graves is in the middle of opening his pants, his capable hands working the belt buckle. Once again Credence feels that surge of panic. He is too excited and nervous to pay it much mind. He stands in the doorway and watches Graves part his belt and the buttons of his trousers, reaching inside to bring out his cock. 

Credence makes a helpless noise when he sees it. It’s big, much thicker than Credence’s, and it curves a little to the left halfway up. The hair at the base is dappled with salt. When Graves lets go of it, it rests against his belly between the open halves of his shirt, nearly to his navel. He rubs his hand down over it and grunts, hips shifting. He catches Credence’s eye then glances over the rest of him again as he had before, a lingering appraisal, one hand spread in his lap to hold himself. He murmurs, “Look at you, my little wife.” 

All the breath stutters out of Credence's lungs, a wash of blistering heat singing in its wake. He blinks hard and shakes his head to clear it. His cheeks prickle with a blush. He could not possibly have heard right, Graves wouldn't…

But then Graves continues, that same low voice that seems to pet Credence from the inside out, “Pretty girl, waiting for me at home every day in your underwear, getting all wet.” His teeth sink for a moment into his bottom lip. “You're ready to get fucked, aren't you?” Credence’s ears are ringing so loud he nearly doesn’t hear when Graves continues, “Bring it here, then.”

Credence approaches on nerveless legs to hand over the jar. Graves takes it, then slides forward in his seat so that Credence is standing straddled over his knee. “Put your hands on my shoulders,” Graves says. Credence obeys, fumbling, peering down between them to look at Graves’ cock. His own is aching between his legs, wetting the chemise even more than Graves’ mouth did. 

He hears Graves open the jar, then set it aside. His arms slide around Credence and Credence feels the chemise lift in the back a moment before Graves’ oily fingers slip between his buttocks. He twitches at the sensation, still foreign and embarrassing, and ducks his head. 

“Relax, sweet thing,” Graves says, as his fingers stroke and press at Credence’s hole. He rubs it like he’s trying to pick a lock, finding the right combination of force and coaxing to open it. Credence knows how to relax for this, because Graves taught him, and a moment later Graves’ fingers ease inside, blunt and big and inescapable. Credence sobs and shudders, his arms squeezing Graves’ shoulders, going up on his toes. 

“There,” Graves murmurs against his stomach, voice gone rough. “There we go.” He touches inside Credence deeply, thoroughly. “What a tight little cunt you have. Do you like that?”

Credence bites his lip, squirming with humiliation at Graves’ dirty words. He can hardly answer, his breath seized within his chest, but eventually he manages, “Y-yes. _Yes_.”

Graves strokes in and out, curling his fingers, until Credence is slick with Vaseline, hot and tingling. When he withdraws his fingers, he runs them down to cradle Credence’s balls, and that nearly makes Credence come all over again, his breath breaking high and panicked, his pelvis jumping. Graves chuckles. Lets him go and sits back in the chair. Credence nearly faints as he watches Graves dip into the jar again and smooth it up and down his cock. It glistens in the lamplight, seeming to grow even thicker in his hand. Graves holds his cock away from his body with two fingers and pats his thigh with his clean hand. “Come up here.”

Credence climbs shakily into his lap, bracing himself on Graves’ shoulder and the back of the chair. He doesn’t trust himself not to fall straight over. The stretch of his thighs over Graves’ makes him quake, bare and vulnerable between them, Graves’ trousers scratching him. Graves’ cock bumps his balls and pushes at the ticklish inside of his thigh. He takes hold of Credence's hip and adjusts until Credence is poised just right, Graves’ cock nudged up against the tightness of his hole. They’re so close together, Graves solid and steady beneath him, a reassuring protectiveness in the breadth of his chest and the sharp clean smell of his pomade and sweat, the tilt of his head.

“Sit on it,” Graves says. His breath is sharp with whisky, hot on Credence's jaw. He pushes up, testing the give of Credence's body but not going inside. The hand on Credence's hip squeezes. “Sit your little cunt down on Daddy's cock.”

Credence whimpers, his stomach rolling like a stormy ocean. He shuts his eyes tight. What is that supposed to mean, and how is he meant to respond? What secret predilection has Graves divined about him by magic or intuition that makes him say things like that? And what kind of creature is Credence to find it enjoyable, to go liquid inside with such a swamp of baffled and starving want?

Graves tips his head back so Credence is looking down at him. “You want it in you, don't you?”

Credence nods. He can feel the empty hungry place inside him that Graves can fill so well. He can nearly feel the stretch of being entered.

“I'm not going to do everything for you. You have to earn it sometimes.” Graves’ tone is faintly chastising. 

Credence wants to cringe with embarrassment. He says, “I'm sorry,” before he can stop himself.

Graves takes his hand off Credence's hip and lays it on his cheek instead. “None of that, now.” He runs his thumb across Credence's mouth, pressing just barely past his bottom lip. “Give me a kiss.”

Credence leans down, relieved to return to steady ground. Kissing is something he knows he likes, as often as possible, as deep and thorough as he can get. Graves kisses him many times a day, usually with one hand beneath Credence's chin, tipping him up for it, or from on top of him in bed at night, pinning Credence by the shoulders. It's strange to do it now from above Graves, but Credence discovers he likes it just as much. He opens his mouth for Graves to lick and puts his hands in Graves’ hair. Graves growls into his mouth, biting Credence's lip, and Credence feels suddenly, strangely… powerful. Not with strength, not as though he is holding Graves down for the taking, but subtly, with the influence of his body, of his hands and his mouth and the place between his legs. He knows Graves wants to be inside him as badly as Credence wants it.

He feels strong, a heady blaze of bravery. Slowly, determined, he sits down. It doesn't hurt, not really. He's tight, his body resisting even as it welcomes, but not locking shut on the border of panic and shock the way it had the first time, when he’d hardly know this was a thing people could do with each other, much less want to. He’s learned since then how to trick himself into taking it more easily, how to enjoy it. 

Graves groans under him, hand tightening on Credence’s neck. “Good girl,” he pants against Credence’s mouth, his teeth sharp and then gentle on Credence’s bottom lip. His hips flex up, pushing farther inside. “All the way down, there you go.”

He takes it all. Every inch of it, all the way inside, and then he puts his forehead down against Graves’ shoulder and bites the clean cotton of Graves’ shirt and shuts his eyes. Graves doesn't wait for him to adjust, he never does. He pushes into Credence insistent and inexorable, opening him in ways that make Credence whine and his thighs cramp. It hurts, in a clean seasick sort of way, but he likes it. He likes the heave of Graves’ chest against his, he likes the way Graves squeezes his hips, dragging him deeper, rocking him. He likes the way it makes his cock throb.

He pushes one arm down between them to touch himself. He's not very good at it yet, unpractised and still embarrassed to do it at all, much less in front of another person. He rubs at himself through the chemise, pressing his cock up against his belly. The pressure of it has him shivering, clenching, and Graves makes a noise under his breath like a snarl. It rumbles all through Credence in every place they touch, deep and overwhelming. 

Graves slips one hand up under the chemise and takes hold of Credence's cock. His grip is sure, tight, his thumb nudging into the sensitive place just under the head. 

“Little slut,” Graves whispers to him. He's called Credence that before, sometimes during sex and sometimes right before or after. It shocks the pit of Credence's stomach the same now as ever, sends blood rushing into his cheeks.

He _is_ a slut, and he knows it. As loose as women who walk the streets, as depraved as the boys who suck cock in alleys for dimes. He’s a whore, enjoying this the way he does. To play the woman for Graves, to open his legs, to let himself be used in so base a fashion. He cries out quietly at the way Graves strokes him, firm and punishing. The lewd way his fist rolls up the foreskin. He's not going to last long at all. He wants to say that, make excuses for himself in advance, but he opens his mouth and can't speak. It's all rushing up through him too fast.

Graves seems to understand anyway. He says against Credence's mouth, “Are you going to fucking come, you little whore?”

Credence cries out louder at that, his hips stuttering, his whole body wringing tight in a harsh spasm of pleasure and mortification. Yes yes _yes_ , he's going to, he’s-- he comes all over Graves’ hand, balls throbbing with it. It wets the inside of the chemise and soaks through, thick clotted white and the drip of fluid, a pattern of iniquity desecrating the gentle pink of the silk. 

“There you go,” Graves pants, his other hand digging tight at the meat of Credence's ass, forcing it down on his cock. “Good girl, hold still, hold still for it--”

And Credence can barely obey, his muscles shocked, thighs trembling, cock jerking and dripping. He tries to be good and take it, let his body make Graves feel good, pay him back for the attention and the effort. It burns in him, the harsh fast pounding of Graves’ cock, the vicious way Graves holds him down, the other hand still squeezed around Credence’s sensitive, wet cock. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Graves says. He bares his teeth and bites Credence’s neck as he comes, a sharp wide mouthful of flesh. Credence sobs and tries to pull away by instinct, but he is locked in the cage of Graves’ thick hard arms, pinned by the throbbing rigidity of the cock in his ass, and can’t move at all. He cringes and shakes and takes it. He holds still for it. 

After a minute of Graves thrusting, forcing the last spasms of his orgasm into Credence’s ass, there’s a lengthy moment of silence, a coiled rigidity, before he sighs and relaxes. His mouth slides wetly away from Credence’s throat, hands loosening. Credence collapses against him boneless as an eel, shaking from head to toe. Graves’ chest moves in deep breaths under him. He smells sharp with new sweat, raw and salty in the curve of his armpit where Credence buries his face. 

A hand pats his back, a little unsteadily, a little comforting. “You’re alright,” Graves mumbles, his chest growling with it. “You’re alright.”

Credence shuts his eyes and shivers. He thinks, for once, that Graves might be wrong.


End file.
